


Kiss of Steel

by sparkly_butthole



Series: MCU Kink Bingo [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Blowjobs, Brief thoughts of self-harm, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Identity Porn, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Steve Rogers' Oral Fixation, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:54:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23900056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkly_butthole/pseuds/sparkly_butthole
Summary: Bucky comes home. The way he does it, though?It's... unconventional, to say the least.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: MCU Kink Bingo [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/857616
Comments: 15
Kudos: 164
Collections: MCU Kink Bingo Round 4





	Kiss of Steel

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my MCU kink bingo square "gunplay." Huge thank you to both [NurseDarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NurseDarry) and [PerfectlyImperfect42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerfectlyImperfect42) for beta work! <3

  
  
  
  


There is an art to murder. The Soldier knows this. And the particular expression of that talent, the scene’s flair, his signature, depends on what’s been programmed into him. It could be torture, a death to send a message, or a quick killshot. Creativity is encouraged to an extent - what’s the use of keeping an artist around, after all, if he’s not given the freedom to perfect his craft. 

When he’d first been programmed to kill Rogers, it’d been to send a message. To his friends, to the government, to anyone listening, that Hydra is - was? - in charge now. Then the mission became to end Rogers’ life as quickly as possible, because, to quote his handler, "The bastard just won’t give up.” 

And the Soldier had found out firsthand just how right his handler had been. Rogers, ‘bastard’ or not, hadn’t given up. Had, in fact, insisted on calling him ‘Bucky’, as though that name held any meaning whatsoever. 

_ To the end of the line - and there’s a street in Brooklyn, a staircase, a kid, can’t be more than sixteen - and god, but he loves him - _

Anyway, murder is an art. The Soldier knows from experience that there’s only one way he gets this done cleanly, and that’s through the head. But most people think a shot anywhere through the brain will kill a person, that they can’t live without a whole, perfect brain.

But a brain isn’t just a piece of meat like any other, and it’s incredibly malleable in some ways, much to Bucky’s occasional consternation. Humans are like that sometimes. Stubborn and unwilling to just lie down and sleep. 

What Bucky wouldn’t give to get some goddamn sleep. 

So to the point: the quickest way to kill a man depends on whether he’s facing toward you or away from you. And for Rogers, it’s gotta be quick. The damage the Soldier inflicts has to be enough to kill him before he can heal. Reports on Rogers’ past injuries imply that he’ll die the same as any man when shot through the brainstem. Respiration and cardiac activity will cease immediately. He might wake from slumber, but he won’t last long, even if he does.

From the back, it’s easy. The brainstem is right in front of you at the base of the skull. And your target won’t know you’re there, either, not if you’re good enough at your job, and the Soldier is the best in the business. Rogers will be dead before he hits the ground.

From the front is another story. This is where the ‘art’ comes into play. The face, the bones get in the way, as does the thick meat of the neck. There’s an angle through the mouth that’ll shoot straight into it, though. It’s an angle with which the Soldier is intimately familiar. They’d had him practice on innocent civilians once upon a time in Russia.

His target is impossible to get near in daytime. Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., the Avengers, and Stark’s damn AI are too smart, and on the lookout for the Soldier besides. He’s good enough to sneak into Rogers’ home, though, mostly because the man lives in Brooklyn with limited security and not at the Tower like a smart man would. 

_ Steve’s never been that bright when it comes to his own safety, the fuckin’ mook. _

He shakes his head to clear it, unsure where these thoughts come from or who might’ve planted them - if they had. It’s a damn good thing he doesn’t remember, because he’s not looking to repeat that experience again. Not that it matters, because Rogers is going to die tonight. And then he can rest, find another base where they’ll wipe him and send him back to cryo to sleep in peace. 

The Soldier creeps into the target’s room, silent as the Siberian night and just as cold. He eyes Rogers, who is sleeping on his back, snoring with his mouth open wide. He’s laid out like a… a feast or something, or maybe a whore. He thinks he remembers taking a whore sometime in the ‘70’s, though the repeated wipes have left him pretty hazy on the exact decade or details. Rogers’ legs are spread like one, too, and he sleeps nude; the Soldier can see the delicate white skin of his inner thigh, right by where the thin sheet barely covers his sex. 

_ I sleep naked now because I run hot, Barnes. Metabolism, remember? _

_ Okay, but get your dick away from me.  _

_ Laughter and a soft look.  _

He knows it’s true, though he’s not sure how, or who this ‘Barnes’ is supposed to be. Him? 

He scoffs. What a ridiculous idea. The Soldier has no name. He needs no name. 

The man sleeps as though he’s safe, like he trusts whomever might be in the room with him. Bad, because a man with Rogers’ clearance shouldn’t trust anyone with his safety. Good, because it means his own presence isn’t registering.

The Soldier carefully crawls up the bed, getting into position right by Rogers’ neck and leaning over… only he can’t seem to get the hand holding the gun to move. It’d take him five seconds to get it into position and end Rogers’ life, but somehow he can’t do it. He stares down at the gun, feeling his face twist in confusion, for actual  _ minutes _ . They’d have deactivated him fucking decades ago had he done this after they’d broken him. The Russians in the most creative ways - he shudders to imagine it. After all, this is a fatal mistake in his line of work, and one he never would have made before the fall of Hydra. Even worse, this is one of the only men in the world who can go toe-to-toe with him unaided, and he is in grave danger.

_ To the end of the line - and a boy, and a staircase in Brooklyn. _

What does that even  _ mean? _

Frustrated and now a little scared of his inability to act, the Soldier leaves just as quietly as he’d arrived. But he throws a fit when he gets to his own home, an abandoned basement apartment that still has a working shower and warm water. He tosses books and recording equipment around the room, screaming at himself for his own idiocy, twice over since it’s not like he’s locked in a soundproof room. The Soldier is broken but not stupid. He  _ knows _ it’s stupid, especially if he breaks any of the surveillance stuff, but god, he’s so  _ angry _ . 

How many times will the Soldier fail this mission before Hydra’s remnants find him and zap him again? Or before they finally do it, finally deactivate him?

_ Would that be such a bad thing _ ? his mind whispers, and  _ fuck _ .

He needs to get his shit together  _ fast _ .

***

The next night finds the Soldier crawling through the same hole in Rogers’ window, Rogers is sleeping the same way he did last night: naked, legs open and vulnerable, just like his mouth. 

_ Who is this guy _ ? the Soldier thinks incredulously.  _ How has he survived this long? Doesn’t he know the Soldier is still out there? _

_ But you pulled him from the water _ , another voice whispers in his head.  _ Why? _

The Soldier has no answer to any of these questions. He’s disturbed that he can even  _ ask _ so many questions. A measure of creativity might have been extended, but curiosity was discouraged during his reign as Hydra’s pet assassin, unless it had been specific to the mission. But he keeps failing this mission, and is that because of the questions, or in spite of them?

Why can’t he just focus?

The Soldier turns back to Rogers’ sleeping form, silently creeping up on him. He gets into the same position he’d been in yesterday, tries to aim the gun before the target awakens… and it doesn’t work again. Well, it works  _ better _ ; his hand is halfway to Rogers’ mouth before he discovers he physically can’t move it. Can _ not, _ not even if he switches to the part of him that is no longer human. He doesn’t shake, he just  _ can't. _

This time, he doesn’t allow his astonishment to fester, instead leaving the house as fast as possible. 

His heart’s beating like mad, fear and confusion and something else… something like… well. It’s unimportant; it wasn’t as though the Soldier had never felt emotions, he’d just never let them take over his functioning. And he’s fairly certain that’s not what’s happening here, even if he doesn’t understand what actually  _ is. _

Sighing, the Soldier strips and makes his way to the shower, trying to enter that blessedly quiet state of being before the shot. Before long, the only thing in his head is how pleased he is to have hot water. It hadn’t been something Hydra’d allowed him very often. It clears his head… for a little while, anyway. 

***

  
  


Three nights later, the Soldier decides to try again. The situation’s the same as before: Rogers on his back, legs splayed wide. One arm curled above his head. A statue of a Greek God. 

Something stirs in the Soldier then. Quite literally. There he is, on his knees right next to Rogers, staring dumbly at the crotch of his pants. This isn’t something the Soldier remembers or understands; even remembering the whore doesn’t really give him any idea what to do with this. 

What he knows is:

  * It’s a cock
  * It’s _his_ cock
  * It’s hardening
  * It feels good



That’s it.

And the Soldier tries to work through his bafflement, he really does, only his underwear is tight and getting more uncomfortable by the second. He even gets the gun, carefully, ever-so-carefully, between Rogers’ teeth, right  _ there _ . All it would take is a few pounds of pressure on his trigger finger, and  _ Bang! _ This problem would be no more. Then he can go… Where, exactly?

_ Home _ , his mind supplies unhelpfully. 

_ What the fuck is home to a weapon? _

But his cock, that’s the thing. And the Soldier might be fifteen kinds of scrambled, but he’s not an idiot. He can see the similarity between a cock and a gun, the shape, size, and grip of them. He imagines Rogers’ hot breath against him, imagines sticking his dick between those plump lips, pistoning in - 

He pulls back and runs, faster than ever before, then sits in the corner of his smelly, dilapidated apartment. Is this home? A safehouse? The place where he’s squatting, at least. His mama taught him better than to squat, didn’t she?

But he doesn’t have a mama. He has… the Motherland? It’s gone now too, though.

What is _ happening _ to him?

***

His confusion gets worse over time, not better. The longer he goes without a wipe, the more fragmented his mind becomes. He’s staring at them now, little cardboard pieces floating in the void, so many strange shapes and no way to fit them all together. 

He still feels the compulsion to put the gun in Rogers’ mouth, but it’s weaker than before, and it takes him three weeks to make his way back to the apartment. Nothing has changed, of course, including the situation with his cock, but he forces himself to pay attention like Zola’s and Russia’s and Alexander Pierce’s good little pet, and puts the gun into Rogers’ mouth. 

Only this time, he finds that he doesn’t  _ want _ to pull the trigger. He wants to… understand. Why was Hydra going after Rogers? They never did tell him the man’s story, like they often would for a high-profile target. Not even the bare bones, just  _ this guy, this place, you’ll be sorry if you miss this one. _

Just as the Soldier is coming to this realization, his target opens his eyes. The Soldier, trained through trial by fire, doesn’t flinch, just cocks the trigger as quickly and obviously as he can. He watches as Rogers’ eyes attempt to track the motion, as the man takes in his surroundings, the situation, the gun in his mouth.

And two things happen then, neither of which the Soldier expects.

One, those sky-blue eyes spark memories - suddenly, the name 'Barnes' rings a bell, and he has the echo of a memory now of who Rogers might have been once upon a time, or at least who he might’ve been  _ to him _ .

And two, Rogers lifts his neck and takes the gun  _ further into his mouth. _

At first, the Soldier - Barnes? - thinks it’s some kind of joke, Hydra pulling his leg,  _ har-dee-har-har,  _ teaching him a lesson - either that, or a fall into madness. He quickly discards that for another option, that Rogers is suicidal. It certainly wouldn’t surprise him, at least, given how the man had acted on the helicarrier, letting the Soldier beat him bloody. 

It’s just. Those eyes. Piercing, strong, intelligent… Welcoming.  _ Aroused _ , even. 

Barnes, to his own astonishment, doesn’t feel the need to bolt. He just watches his target take the Sig Sauer all the way into his mouth and lick up the barrel with his tongue. Even with his limited knowledge of sex, Barnes knows that shouldn’t be possible. Not without a _ lot _ of practice. 

Barnes doesn’t even realize he’s come until he palms his crotch and feels the wetness. Rogers watches his movements with something like amusement, if the crinkles at the corners of his eyes are anything to go by. 

“You’re a fuckin’ adrenaline junkie,” Barnes breathes, awestruck.

Steve Rogers just sucks harder on the barrel in response.

Barnes pulls the gun out of his target’s -  _ Steve’s _ \- mouth and holsters it. Then he stares at Rogers while Rogers stares right back at him. That soft, playful affection is still there. No fear. None at all, despite the fact that he woke up with Barnes’ gun on insta-kill mode.

“Bucky,” Steve eventually murmurs. “Do you remember me?”

Barnes just keeps staring, not even sure how to answer that.  _ Does _ he remember?

“I… not really?”

Rogers nods like this is what he expected. Barnes feels like something important’s gone right over his head. 

_ What’s new these days?  _ he thinks sourly.

“You can leave if you need to,” Rogers says, as though Barnes needed his permission. As though Barnes is the one naked and vulnerable in bed. 

He wants to leave, so he does. But the look in Rogers’ eyes when he does makes it clear: Barnes will be back. 

Barnes always comes back.

***

Rogers wasn’t wrong. Barnes is addicted now, or something like it; he feels the pull even stronger than he had when he was brainwashed. He wants to understand this: who Rogers is (or was), why he can’t kill the man, and most importantly, why the hell Rogers would suck on his  _ pistol _ . Why there’s not a speck of fear in his eyes when he looks at Barnes.

And Barnes shudders to think that, if there even  _ had _ been a spark, he’d have pulled that trigger anyway. Like his programming dictates he should. Maybe that’s the key, that his victims - and when did he start thinking of them as victims instead of marks? - show fear. Maybe that’s why Barnes couldn’t kill Rogers on the helicarrier. It’s an odd thing for Hydra to have programmed him with, but fuck if he knows anything about brainwashing other than what it’s like to be on the receiving end. 

He lasts three nights before going back, and this time, he finds Rogers in the same position but wide awake, the icicle-eyes tracking his every move. Even in the relative darkness, Rogers is obviously aroused. His pupils are dilated, and Bucky confirms his conclusion with a glance at the man’s groin. 

Barnes meets Steve Rogers’ eyes before his brain catches up to him - he just thought of himself as 'Bucky', the name Steve...

_ (Stevie)  _

...had given him. 

“What’s happening to me?” he wonders aloud, not expecting the man next to him to respond.

“You’re remembering,” Steve says in a scratchy voice, startling Barnes enough to make him jump. A part of him whispers  _ sloppy _ , but he shuts that voice up with a small shake of his head. Rogers is trustworthy. Rogers had Barnes’ life in his hands and had chosen to let him go. 

In response, Barnes doesn’t make a noise, just moves in closer, pulls the Sig from its holster, and slowly, ever-so-slowly, pushes it into Rogers’ waiting mouth, which opens willingly,  _ beautifully. _ He pushes it in all the way, feeling the slight give of Rogers’ throat as the tip of the gun slides into it. Barnes’ cock is _ so fucking hard _ ; he knows it’s the same for the man beneath him.

The way Rogers’ tongue slides out of his mouth and licks the bottom of the barrel is obscene, like nothing he’s ever seen -

_ Yes, you have. You’ve done this before. _

Or. Maybe he  _ has _ seen it before. Maybe his body knows it like his blood knows Steve Rogers’ blood. Something untainted, something from deep in the past, something too meaningful for even a genius and a machine to erase completely. 

It’s fucking  _ wild _ , is what it is.

Rogers’ tongue caresses the gun the same way he would if he were playing with the thick vein on the underside of Barnes’ cock, a fact that gets him harder than fucking diamond and ready to blow any second. With his metal hand, he presses against his crotch to both stop it from happening and get a little measure of relief. He closes his eyes, wanting to enjoy this, to prolong the pleasure. 

When he’s sure he’s got a hold of himself, he opens his eyes to see Rogers looking at him with that weird mix of amusement and affection that Barnes is utterly unable to explain. He can’t seem to stop staring at his former target as he slides the weapon in and out of his slick mouth. Saliva catches on the barrel, making a slurping noise that is both appalling and alluring at once.

Barnes groans as Steve closes his own eyes, utterly debauched, focusing on sucking off the gun just as enthusiastically as he would if it was a real cock. Barnes knows this in his bones, knows that, somehow, the two of them have performed this dance before, again and again. 

The memory comes to him in a flash, the first time Rogers had done this: in a tent in the woods. In… France, maybe. Two days outside of Paris, he thinks. Pestering Barnes - Bucky - to do it, whispering  _ my mouth can take it now  _ in his ear, as though they ever would have done it back in Brooklyn, back when Steve was small. It was the night Steve had admitted his feelings for Bucky. Go figure he’d immediately freak Bucky out with the absolute filthiest thing they could get up to in the middle of a war.

“We used to do this,” Bucky breathes, and even though it’s a statement and not a question, Rogers nods. He hollows his cheeks and sucks hard on the weapon, the way he’d taken Barnes’ come that first time. Every time. 

_ Jesus. _

Barnes comes with a choked-off groan, overwhelmed with both the pleasure and the memories. He pulls the gun from Rogers’ mouth and pants, staring, still, at the familiar expression on the man’s face. And suddenly, he wants to remember everything, all of it. How they’d come to be that way. Willing to admit it, even when it might’ve gotten them discharged or even killed. How it had all gone wrong. 

Bucky’s past.

_ Bucky _ .

He tries it on for size, eyes distant, glazed over with memory. “My name is Bucky.”

“Yes,” Steve says, face bright as the sun’s rays. 

“We were together. During the… war? In France. I think.”

“France,” Steve confirms. “Among other places,” he adds with a wry quirk of his lips.

“And you took my gun like that.” Barnes - Bucky - swallows hard. “Loaded. Like a loon.” He thinks for a moment, staring off into the night, before turning back to Steve. “You are fucking insane, aren’t you.”

“Certifiable,” Steve agrees. 

Barnes suddenly remembers that Steve has his own needs and turns to stare at his still-hard cock, pink and proud underneath the see-through sheets. But he’s not ready. Not yet. He wants to be, but… 

“I should go,” he says, not meeting Steve’s eyes.

“You’ll be back, though.”

Barnes doesn’t need to answer. Barnes _ always _ comes back.

  
  


***

  
  


And to think, if the man wasn’t such a goddamn lunatic, Barnes - Bucky, dammit,  _ Bucky _ \- would have managed to kill him some time ago. He wouldn’t have had the opportunity to get inside Bucky’s head like this. But he’d dropped the shield and shattered the Soldier’s brain like an eggshell, all the important bits spilling out into a puddle that he’d then repeatedly stepped in. 

The floodgates are open now. The egg can’t be reshaped, its shell too damaged. What’s dripped out of it in slow dribbles is congealing, taking shape, nearing a final form. He remembers things. Things he’d give anything to remember, things he’d give anything to forget. 

A field of flowers in the French countryside. 

A tenement in Brooklyn, he and Steve hanging their legs over the fire escape, laughter floating in the hot Brooklyn evening.

Screams. Limbs flying. Men dying in the most horrific ways imaginable. 

A woman in a red dress. A flying car. Making love to his best friend in an old, crumbling farmhouse while their unit kept watch. 

The blood on his hands, so much it had never been given an opportunity to completely dry. 

What it had taken to make him that way. 

It’s a lot to take in, too much for one man to unpack all at once, the world’s weirdest collection of luggage finally forced open. There are growing pains while he sorts through it; half the time, he feels like screaming from the pressure, the pounding in his skull. But he has no choice, does he? There’s no escaping this, and frankly, he’s not sure he even wants to. 

Bucky has unpacked a lot of it by the time he emerges from his apartment an unknown amount of time later. His brain still hurts, and will for a while, but he’s well enough to go see - him. Steve. His mark, his friend, his enemy, his lover.

Steve opens his eyes shortly after Bucky enters through the open window.  _ Makin’ it easy on me, huh, Rogers? _ he thinks with a sort of manic glee. Out of all the ways Bucky could’ve come back to the fold, this is not how he would’ve pictured it going. 

Maybe Steve had. 

_ My lunatic _ , he thinks fondly. 

“Come on, come here,” Steve says, gentle so as not to spook him, as though there’s any chance of going back now. 

Bucky climbs onto the bed and sits there on his knees. He breathes. Closes his eyes. After everything, after sorting through the memories and knowing in his bones how true they are, he can still barely believe this is happening. Because in what kind of world does this happen? The fantasy lands of unruly teenagers? 

It takes him a while to realize he’s staring, stock still like he’s going to take a shot. Steve’s waiting patiently, of course, when he snaps back to reality. 

“You… want this?” Bucky is surprised his voice doesn’t shake. 

“Do you remember me?” 

“Yes. I mean… I think so. Some of it, maybe most.” He ponders that for a moment, then huffs, “How the hell would I know what I remember?”

Steve bites his lip and tries, unsuccessfully, to hide a grin. “Then you should know the answer.” 

He… does. Bucky knows the answer. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t. 

“It’s just… “ 

“It’s a lot. I know. Please.” Steve gestures, reaching his arms out to guide Bucky to him. “Let me. Let me show you how good you can feel. C’mon.” 

Steve is very persuasive. Bucky’s barely a person anyway, and his knee-jerk reactions to Steve now can be narrowed down to  _ protect  _ and  _ fuck. _ Sometimes it’s easiest to think like an animal - he’d learned that lesson by fire - so he goes with it. If he knows anything, it’s that he wants this, too. He lets that animal nature take over, quickly shedding his clothes, eager to feel Steve’s skin against his. 

When he does, when Steve grips underneath his thighs and pulls him close, it makes him gasp and nearly black out. Nobody has touched him with care, with _ desire, _ in decades. In more than half a century if he’s got his timeline right. 

“Can I?” he whispers hesitantly, even as Steve positions Bucky’s body above his own. People have touched him without consent for so long, he can’t stand the thought of Steve not wanting this. He used to, that’s certain, but does he still?

Steve grips the base of his cock, punching the air out of his lungs as easily as a two-by-four to the chest, and Bucky doesn’t even notice the incredulous look he receives in response.

“Go slow, go  _ slow _ ,” he pleads. “I’m gonna come the second you breathe on me,  _ Christ. _ ” 

And Steve, well, he tries. Bucky remembers that he’d always been overeager when it came to stuff like this. Always wanting to please, to be good enough. He wants to smile and pet Steve affectionately, but winds up gripping the soft strands of his hair instead, with both metal and flesh fingers, when Steve takes him in like he’s air and Steve’s been drowning. 

He can’t help thrusting down into Steve’s throat, not giving him time to adjust to the stretch. Steve manages anyway, with his big dumb mouth, taking Bucky like it’s easy. Like it’s comfortable to be like this, vulnerable and under Bucky’s power. And Bucky realizes it’s true, it  _ is _ easy for him - it’s written like a poem across Steve’s face, this bliss, this trust Bucky doesn’t deserve and has probably never deserved. 

This is what it’s like to have one true friend. He’d be on his knees in thanks if he weren’t already on his knees for another reason.

Hot tears drip onto Steve, little rivers trailing down to his ears and mouth, mingling with the drool and precome smearing across his face. Steve’s eyes flutter open, and Bucky swallows hard, forcing himself to meet Steve’s eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispers, sounding wrecked. 

Steve can’t exactly smile with a cock in his mouth, but the crinkles at the corners of his eyes give him away just the same. 

Then Steve grips his thighs tighter, urges him forward, forcing Bucky to angle himself where he can get his cock as far into Steve’s throat as it will go. Bucky’s hips twitch when Steve’s tongue licks up the underside of him, and it’s too much - no matter how he wants this to last, nobody has been kind to him in so long; that’s what unravels him, overtakes him like a wave. The last thing Bucky registers before whiting out is how Steve’s eyes fly open and how fucking unbelievably  _ happy  _ he looks. 

Bucky pulls out, shaky, and Steve immediately wraps himself around him before he can even flop back against the mattress, arms and legs gripping him tightly.  _ Idiot _ , he thinks fondly, carding his metal hand through Steve’s hair.  _ Where would I even go now? After this.  _

Steve seems to understand, but he doesn’t let go either, so maybe it’s for him, too. 

“Were you always this clingy?” Bucky finally asks. 

“Sometimes.” 

“How - “

“I remember the first time we did this” Steve interrupts, raising his head to look Bucky in the eye. “I’d just gotten you out of Austria and you were… boy, you were angry. Over the war, over Carter. I was scared out of my mind that you were going to do something stupid.”

“So you did something stupid instead, right? Let me… oh my god, you let me put that gun in your mouth. You  _ let _ me do that, you said you didn’t care if it was loaded or not. You  _ dumb shit,”  _ Bucky says incredulously, then throws his head back into the pillow and groans. 

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Steve says easily. “You needed it.”

“Need? No one  _ needs  _ something like that, Steve.  _ No _ one.” 

“You fucked my mouth with that gun, cocked it, even, when it was as far in as it could go. When I looked at you, that was the first time I saw you smile since I’d gotten you back.”

“So I broke the command to kill you because one time, in the field, I fucked your mouth with a gun.”

“More than one time.”

“Yeah, that’s the part we need to focus on here,” he responds. “Steve - “

“It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to us.”

“You’re stupid for trusting me,” Bucky insists. 

Steve shrugs. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“I am going to murder you on general principle one of these days.”

“You’re not the first person to say that.” 

Bucky tenses. The others - right. He doesn’t get to keep Steve like this, in a cocoon, shut away from the world for the rest of their lives. And even if he could, even if he wanted to, Bucky could never do that to Steve. 

Steve places his hand on Bucky’s chest to forestall any action such as running the fuck away. “They know.”

“... that I fucked your mouth with a gun?”

“That we’ve been seeing each other.”

“... because I fucked your mouth with a gun.”

Steve ignores him. “They’re backing off. You can stay here for now. We’ll decide what to do soon, but I want you here, and I’m keeping you with me no matter what they say.”

Leave it to Steve Rogers to be so unilaterally stubborn as to protect Bucky Barnes - with his life, Bucky has no doubt - even after all he’s done. 

“I’m… “ Bucky hesitates, the weight of the words heavy in his throat. “I’m not a good person, Steve.”

“I disagree,”

“You don’t have to - “

“And furthermore, I don’t care. Even if I could make that argument in good faith, I’d still stand by your side.” 

Tears sting Bucky’s eyes once more, this time dripping down the sides of his own face, wetting the pillow underneath him. “Alright,” he says when he can speak again, when he can get enough air again, “alright. We see what happens.” 

After all, if Steve can trust so openly, so utterly, so can he. They’re in it together, whatever happens next.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
